


O Death

by Mirabai0821



Series: O Death [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-21 13:11:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6052831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirabai0821/pseuds/Mirabai0821
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well look here. Bryce Cousland’s little spitfire all grown up and still playing the man. I thought Loghain made it clear that your pathetic family is gone and forgotten.”</p><p>Howe laughed, summoning a growl from both Dog and Alistair at her back. “Let’s compare memories, eh? Your parents died on their knees, your brother’s corpse rots in Ostagar and his brat was burned on a scrap heap along with his Antivan whore wife.</p><p>“And what’s left, a fool husk of a daughter likely to end her days under a rock in the Deep Roads? Even the Wardens are gone. You’re the last of nothing. This is pointless. You’ve lost.”</p><p>**<br/>I was asked on tumblr about how Issa would react to Arl Howe's speech about her family. This is her response.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Death

She chased Death, fingertips close enough only to ever brush the very edges of Its blood red robes. She prayed for Death, wished for it, she made a lover of Death. Gave It many many gifts, bouquet after bouquet of corpses in hopes of wooing Death to give her Its Kiss.

Death, oh Death was a stubborn and fickle lover, dancing so close so many times.

Like Ostagar.

And Lothering.

The elf paid to kill her who she only spared in hopes he would finally make good on his contract.

Circle Tower.

The Temple of Sacred Ashes.

Death courted her so many times, but never gave her the sublime and rapturous satisfaction of Its touch.

She loved Death.

But Death never returned her affections.

“Well look here. Bryce Cousland’s little spitfire all grown up and still playing the man. I thought Loghain made it clear that your pathetic family is gone and forgotten.”

Until now.

Death gave her token of Its affection. Arl Howe, the man that introduced them, Death and her.

Issa’s heart quickened, her flesh tingled, black swallowed the emerald flecked amber of her eyes. The whistling drafts of the dungeon in Howe’s estate caressed her like gentle hands once did within flimsy tents and under scratchy horse blankets. Death whispered to her, making her forget another’s whispers.

“Here.” Death breathed in her ears. “A rare and wonderful thing. For you.”

And Issa knew now, that Death had spared her Its embrace for this.

“You won’t forget. Their memory drove me to you.” Death lay pressed hard across her back, her greatsword. 

“Not yet,” It whispered. “Wait my precious love, wait for me a little longer.”

“Memory? Ha!” Howe laughed, summoning a growl from both Dog and Alistair at her back. “Let’s compare memories, eh? Your parents died on their knees, your brother’s corpse rots in Ostagar and his brat was burned on a scrap heap along with his Antivan whore wife.

“And what’s left, a fool husk of a daughter likely to end her days under a rock in the Deep Roads? Even the Wardens are gone. You’re the last of nothing. This is pointless. You’ve lost.”

She felt Death extend Its hand. “Now, my love, come with me.”

Sweet rapturous joy exploded across her skin as Issa reached for her sword and embedded it chest of one of Howe’s men-at-arms.

Oh-!

 _Yes!_  
  
**  
  
“Maker spit on you. I deserved—“  
  
It was casual, the action no more than a simple step forward, like stepping on a gap in the sidewalk.  
  
If the gap were Arl Howe’s neck.  
  
The back of his head struck the flagstones with a divine sounding crunch. She giggled and no one heard it, the sound of Howe’s choking gurgle loudest in the room.

Behind her someone stepped forward with a softly blown “No. Don’t.”

Wynne perhaps, Issa didn’t turn to look.  
  
But Dog growled and interposed his hulking body between them, letting Mistress finish this fight on her terms.

She pressed her toe against him, studying the give of his flesh, watching it flatten and stretch under her boot.

Howe choked, started struggling, apparently not yet ready to let Death love him. His hands clawed up her calves and his nails raked against her greaves. Were she armorless, he would have torn her leg to shreds.

Issa did not speak, she shouted no epithets, did not remind Howe of the names of his victims. Of her parents who died on their knees. Bryce and Eleanor.

Of the brother who rots at Ostagar, Fergus.

Of his brat who burned on the scrap heap, Oren, along with his Antivan whore mother Oriana.

She was silent, pressing just enough to choke, not enough to smother whole, delighting in the pleasure of watching him struggle.

“Enough, Maker’s Love! Enough!”

Definitely Wynne.

Still ignored.

Quicksliver lightning flashed, Issa removed her foot from Howe’s neck and fell to her knees. Death teased, but she would wring her rapture from It with her own hands around his throat.

With her thumbs pressed under her chin, Howe spurned Death a little longer, renewing his struggle. His nails raked down her forearms and this time, he did leave bleeding furrows behind that would grow scars that brought her joy to look upon whenever there was no love in her heart.

Death finally came, taking Howe with the barely audible crunch of his windpipe.

His bulging eyes remained open as his breath gave out, lips parted too in a last gasp for Death to give Its kiss to.

Elissa sat back on her heels, hands trembling from exertion and nothing more. She sat back, lover expectant, for Death to kiss her too. It left Its love bites, the wounds in her stomach and chest, left Its passion across her neck in the shape of a large, ugly burn.

But Death, cruel lover Death, spared her no Kiss.

And…

_And…_

She felt hollow, like waking up to an empty bed that was full the night before. She knew killing Howe wouldn’t replace this _pain_ because she expected sweet Oblivion immediately after. 

She chased Death and It led her here to _finally_ Die but Death was a poor, poor lover leaving her unfulfilled.

Issa tipped her head back and wailed.

Wynne turned her head away, disgusted. And Zevran flinched at the sound, knowing too well what happens when one expects sweet release only to have it denied.

Dog whimpered but Alistair…

He took care to tip-toe over limbs and viscera, gave a wide berth to the pool of blood at her back. Alistair cast off his helmet, unbuckled greaves and gauntlets and _pulled_ her into his arms.

Saying nothing, assuming nothing. He offered her no balming words of understanding or commiseration because he neither understood nor commiserated. 

He just held and hoped that he was a better lover than Death.

And he held her as she cried, rocked her in the blood and the gore and the ruination.

Issa learned, only then, that it was never Death she loved.


End file.
